The Coriolis Effect
by maleV
Summary: Who can feel the spin of the Earth?


"The Coriolis effect is a deflection of moving objects when they are viewed in a rotating reference frame. In a reference frame with clockwise rotation, the deflection is to the left of the motion of the object; in one with counter-clockwise rotation, the deflection is to the right."

"What did you do... read Wikipedia?"

Mahogany orbs narrowed, keeping that thousand yard stare captivated until a huff of frustration, shoulders heaving. "What of it? I'm a marksman, Nivans. I know how to execute a shot, I don't need anything more than the numbers. Not your skewed logic. Newton's laws of motion describe the motion of an object in a non-accelerating inertial frame of ref-

"Stop." A hand pressed against his chest, flat and forceful almost lurching the mass weight of flak jacket, and broad arms crossed over so tightly they bulged the pectoral muscles in a most impressive manner. As if to stop a train with that single palm, the heavy lidded eyes, resting on him like a school teacher. One that made no difference to that unimpressed youthful face that calmly took stock, lower his fingers back to the rifle that lulled cross his own leaner shoulders, clasping it with the grips of his gunner's gloves unlike a soldier, but the very vision of an artist with his favorite brush.

Captain Redfield wasn't feeling like a Captain right now. In fact, he felt like a god-damned greenhorn thanks to Alpha team's ace sniper. The same manner of speech he used on their rookie, without the harsh undertone of hatred. The exuded exulted shortness, with a touch of perfectionist banter. "You're the one that said that you wanted me to learn how to use this thing in case you went down. Nivans, you said, and I quote, 'You need to learn how to use this rifle in case I go down. _When_ I go down. When air support comes in, and you are pinned with no other sniper.' Getting in his A.T.L.'s face, small yet important inches giving him the minute chance to look down on the specialist, meaty fingers wrapping the trigger guard and with a swift jerk..., took the rifle back. Hoisting it's weight back to the crook of his mountainous shoulder, positioning his body how he might whilst using the hydra. He knew Piers treated this thing like a trophy wife. Probably the only that Nivans would ever get; with his dedication to the craft and refusal to have a life outside of this occupation. Chris took aim at the target. Precious few seconds to readjust for wind, and humidity. He was slow, very methodical. He wasn't exactly known for his rifle scores, but his overall competence with each weapon, in an at least proficient manner. The scope was unique for the rifle; then again, this wasn't the average sniper rifle. Or the average sniper. His gear was all customized by his own hand. Each lens tempered and crafted by his knowing and well versed knowledge. It was also heavier than average sniper rifles, but it should be, considering it's one of a kind. Drawing in a breath that filled his massive lungs, he prepared for the wicked recoil, the all-too familiar sensation of a firearm being pushed back against chiseled muscles that seemed to recognize it, his musculature a product of hard work and dedication, made, not given. A resounding boom echoed off the air itself as the trigger pulled. Pulling the handle to reload the next bullet was like clockwork in perfect sync with his natural gait. The target was struck, thank God, a cold satisfaction ran up the back of his neck as if it were instinctual. As if he could live with a miss, not that he had lifted a rifle since his Air Force days, for a long distance shot like that. Piers Nivans said hit the head, so the Captain of Alpha Team did just that.

"Slow enough?"

"Stowe the shit-talk, Nivans. Its been more than ten years since I've made to shoot further than the enemy standing right in front of me."

"Your problem, not mine. You never thinking ahead." Deadpan expression, never once allowing excuses.

I've never shot this thing before. You know damned well this is an R&D gun, and you got it a few months ago. Thanks to me, I might add. Could always have you issued a standard pea-shooter."

Smugness. That emotionless expression that held just the upward tilt at the corner of those full pouted lips; that Chris could resent and love at the same time. He had a right to be so cocksure, a right to his high maintenance weaponry. He was that damn good. "Its a bolt-action, high capacity, with an enhanced thermal scope. 12.7 mm rounds, in ten round cases. The scope and trigger are custom fit. R&D wouldn't know what to do with it. But you? You're a marksman, pointman, _captain_. You know the weapon. Its a rifle... Simplify it further, Captain. She's a gun." There was that slip of the tongue. Amusement immediately wiped from his features as the weapon was wrangled with a single hand cupped fingers freeing it with nothing more than a jerk of the forearm and bicep. Smooth as a midnight dream slips into your mind, found that coveted lady, found it's way to the sniper's shoulder. Each movement fluid, calm, and done with exact precision. Bred for the field. Risen, eyes closed with a single click and cock. Hazel orbs flashing open in that single moment, sinking the weapon into his joint with the exhale, and squeezing the trigger. The round sailed with flawless accuracy. Time moved in slow motion for Piers Nivans, but for Chris Redfield, from the time the single hand stole rights to the weapon from his own grip, to the time that the round pierced through the right eye of their mark, it took less than three seconds. Recoil of a bull ramming into the joint, cushioned with the rock of a body that moved with it like poetry, the bruised capillaries and aching joint of thing of none existence for the real owner of the weapon. And then it was returned, the shell casing caught in deft covered finger tips and thumbed with pride, handing over the weapon, without a mark or shred of egotistic vanity. Only clean decisive impassive confidence. "Do it _again_."

"I'd be a _hell_ of a lot faster Nivans, if-

"Now!" The sudden burst of tenor in that harsh gravel tone he could achieve when mounting a threat, startled. A swift jam of his own booted foot against the backside of Alpha Team's deity's own Timberland combat regulations; forcing his foot forward, one shoulder's squared with the action, and his body falling in line with the action of their bodies being flush Agent Piers Nivans' chest to his Captain's back, his jawline only as high as mounding shoulders, but no less imposing; sturdy unrelenting physique forcing his stance.

"Soldier, I will-

"Shut it! You think you have time in the Sandbox for this shit?" Chris' outrage quickly mounted, having his authority threatened in such a manner. Mouth opening with a retort of his own, a hand of which quickly shoved him to face forward, silenced by the overbearing tone of his personally trained sniper. "Every second, every wasted movement, is another man dead. Eyes forward, soldier!" One hand raised put tan clad B.S.A.A. tactical jacket, up against Chris' arm, death's embrace. "23.439. That what the earth is tilted at this very second, and its all you can think of. All you care about. What the temperature is? What the humidity is? Your heart beat that won't slow, making your hands shake, your eyes water. 140/90 thundering in your chest and your ears. If you can't stop living and breathing all the numbers, then you'll _never_ survive. Forget all that and take the _shot_!"

The round resounded in sync with Piers' voice, the resounding sound that was recognizable as only his weapon of choice rang in both their ears, both locked in a stare that was broken only when the weapon was taken from him yet again, loaded as he spun in a kind of waltz, back to back; and shot. Reload. Another shot. Reload. _Another_. Chris refused to wince after each signature boom. Staring straight ahead as the bullets connected and blew off the heads of each rising target before they managed to come completely upright. The audacity of the young sniper making demands made a lip curl back in a snarl that bared his teeth like a dog; when a kid never in his life dealt with the monsters that could possibly tank a shot from such a weapon and just keep coming. One Albert Wesker. Each shot was the picture of perfection, goosebumps shivering up the exposed flesh of the only bits of skin that showed upon the man's honed musculature, across his forearms. The resonance of each, not only felt, but embraced. His body language, so frequently recognized as the relaxed, almost rhythmic maneuvers of the tide. His weight was in his right leg, popping his hip, and each sharp movement of the reloads maintaining sights on the target. Unmoved by the rocking of the recoil and shells that were slid in place. It was so goddamned infuriating. "God damnit, I am your _captain_! You will not-

"You will take it and like it!-

Enough was enough. Chris had never been one to respond well to condescending behavior, especially not from someone as young and egotistical as Piers Nivans. A stomp was taken forward as he reached to grip the underside of the cooling barrel of that rifle, the other hand swiftly reached for the butt of the gun firmly placed against the second-in-command's shoulder. Effortlessly strong-arming the heavy barrel against the upper-chest of the smaller man, he used his own weapon to take him off balance and sweep him off of his feet, flipping him backwards over his own strong hip. Executing an innovative judo hip-toss, his temper flared as he still held the rifle in both hands, tossing it a few feet away to the ground as if it were a pencil. Lowering, he reached a muscular arm to clench his brawny fingers around Piers' throat, holding him down before lowering himself down upon both large, powerful knees. Hips hovered just above the young sniper's head as his throat was released, the captain reaching to undo and rip his nine-oh-nine from it's holster, shoving the muzzle firmly, and unintentionally suggestively down against the other man's pillowy lips as he spoke in a growl. "Know your role and take a good look at the man who just disarmed you like a little teacup bitch. Understand that it is unacceptable for you to 'go down' while you're under my command. You so much as think about dropping that rifle, and I'll find you, no matter where you are, and make you beg me for mercy." Upper-lip twitched while he ardently bore his gaze through the skull of Piers, pulling the firearm from his face and messing his fingertips through his hair as if dealing with a disobedient little boy, his crotch lingering above his face while keeping his shoulders pinned down with his knees.

The slow release of longer tresses, caught and pulled out strands that clung to gripped fingers, a chuckle cut short by the sudden lurch of his own weight upward off the ground with the raised body beneath his own. Hands gripping the sculpted meat at his hip and calf to throw them both, one after the other in a barrel roll. Arms freed by the lack of bony joints digging into his shoulder blades, Piers' fingers immediately took up the fight for the weapon that only a second ago had found its way pushed almost painfully against his pouted tiers. The magazine catch clicked in both pairs of warring hands, the clip dropping in the fray, the slide cocking back, the spare bullet flipping from the weapon. Quickly deconstructed by both men until it lay scattered in pieces, Piers limber lighter form easily finding the rhythm of the roll, throwing the won grip guard to the side in the visible way meant to make statement, the sound of the second weapon shoved back downward into the holster that was strapped to his back. Their positions changed to an almost mirror image of what it had been, without a weapon crammed so dangerously close to Captain Redfield's jawline. Rather shoving his weight down over his chest, to pin. "You feel that?" A hand caught in the shemagh mesh fabric, choking out the air from a strained throat, the inertia of their roll rocking both. "Rotation of the earth. 25,000 miles pass by in 24 hours..., one thousand miles an hour. You and me, and everything else. Stop knowing the numbers, and _feel_ it."

"I feel it." A guttural, dangerous tone growled past the captain's lips as he moved fluidly with the younger man, indeed feeling the momentum of the barrel roll which set him upon his back and allowed the eagle-eyed sniper to move atop his hulking physique in a full mount. A fistful kept a grip upon the iconic shemagh Piers decidedly used as clothing to apply pressure to his throat. Nodding his head, his hand released the fabric as his powerful arm coiled around the right shoulder and arm, clutching his own wrist just as he clutched the wrist of his second-in-command. Forcefully outstretching the arm which had been utilized for countless kill shots, he gave a deep grunt as his ham thighs lifted to constrict around his waist, locking his ankles to trap the smaller figure. "I feel 32 bones in your trigger arm, and right now I'm straining 3 tendons in your shoulder." Muscled thighs squeezed around Agent Nivan's ribs like an anaconda, continuously loosing the hold only to tighten around the waist even more. Keeping the captured arm outstretched, he forcefully hoisted the arm up until the sniper's head would forcefully be moved down against the floor beside his own thick waist. Chris' voice was calm, eerily so as he suddenly bent his opponent's arm inward, manipulating so that the pressure would be averted from the shoulder and suddenly put upon the elbow. Arching his back, his hips heaving up against the washboard abdomen above while he chuckled darkly. "Capsular ligaments, feel those? They keep the humerus in place. I move it out of place, 3 to 6 months post surgery." Canting his head to the side, his forearms flexed as the contours of his muscles showed effortless work put in the kimura lock. Applying pressure upon the elbow, enough to give fair warning of just how dangerous it could become, he spoke quietly as if his lips were right up against Piers' ear. "Those are crucial numbers for a marksman. Tell me what you're _feeling_ now."

The arrogant, and deservedly so sniper knew what he was feeling right now. It was something he knew that he damned sure better keep to himself or else his Captain would probably beat the living shit out of him. "I'm feeling 216lbs of your body... crushing my rotator cuff, Captain." Probably the only voice more calm in that moment could have been Piers, his eyes speaking the volumes his voice never reached as they stared from their natural heavy lidded state, large and wide eyed. "I feel you threatening to _break_ my _fucking_ arm. I _feel_ my coracoacromial ligament," the Captain tightened the Kimura Lock on his arm in response, a chuckle his retort for hearing the guttural grimace of pain that it extracted, teeth and jaw clenched tightly to muffle the tenor that trembled from their exertion. "_I_ feel nnnrgh... a lot more than my hyperflexed scapula... pressing against my..." Just a little more pressure was applied pain surged like a tidal wave, rocking the cooled and calm demeanor to that of a man in pain. The kind of pain that warranted the sharp suck in of a gasp through his teeth, muscles tightening and causing something more dangerous than a simple body injury, but a blow to the ego. "GaahHH_Fuck_! Eighty-six perfect shots. I will end you, Redfield." Chris could cripple him, break his arm, snap it like a twig, and the threat of pain and their physical proximity crafting more then bated breath from the sudden urged threat that mounted between, but rather color joining that olive complexion in a warmed rose, glistening from the sweat droplets clinging to his brow, traveling in a map down his hairline over his jaw, wincing from the sudden jerk of his elbow.

Pain was not something his partner enjoyed admitting to, yet neither was stupidity. A rueful smirk crept upon the corner of his mouth as the verbal threat choked out past those puffed lips, using his iron clad grip for additional pressure upon throbbing ligaments. "_Captain_, you mean. Say good-bye to perfect shot eighty-seven." Prominent brows arched above hardened eyes as he manipulated his protégés gun arm, keeping his back arched with his lower-frame lifted from the ground, his boots cinched at the ankles while his large legs worked at the ribs of the younger figure. Excitement boiled within his veins as a rather well endowed bulge pressed hard just below Piers' chest. Since the early days of his training, alongside the likes of Barry Burton, a powerhouse in his own right, along with his once captain, Albert Wesker, who showed incredible combat skill despite his villainous nature. Jill Valentine played cerebral chess in combat, holding back her incredible agility until it was necessary. Chris Redfield was brunt, a bull in a China shop. A man of action, he snickered darkly as he flexed every contoured muscle of his body to physically convey the message to his prideful little companion that he would snap that god-damned arm like a twig. Piers had already been bent with his arm above his back like a pretzel, the strained tone of his voice was a firm understanding that completion of this submission hold could seriously bring the end of his sniping days. Demanding submission, his lips tightened as he awaited either the feel of a hand tapping out, or what he truly wanted, a submission past those kissy lips. "Pride, or career? I'll make that decision very easy." Clenching his teeth as he shook his head, preparing to maul the arm in his grasp.

With pride like Piers Nivans, Chris half expected him to let him take this little exercise too far, and demonstrate how serious he was about being verbally manhandled by his own S.I.C. The way his mind was always focused toward the next perfect shot, the next big mission, the next training exercise; he was always in soldier mode. But that was what the Captain enjoyed about their little tiffs. That he had met someone who held just as much pride in his work as himself. It made watching him train the team almost enjoyable, seeing a younger version of himself digging in so deep that the rest of the team couldn't breath under the weight of what was demanded of them. They were better for it. But he wasn't some ordinary soldier fresh out the gate. And Piers was not his C.O. That kind of lip, no matter what the circumstance, was unacceptable. He could feel the tension, the sudden silence but for the heavy breathing, the taut muscles struggling to arch their bodies just enough to give a little reprieve on the straining joint, and failing. He half expected to take that well worked, bicep, and shove it so far back that he could hear the snap; before Piers would ever admit a defeat. Hell..., he half wanted to do it himself, and hear that pretty boy sniper break for possibly the first time in his life. Finger tips twitching at the added pressure, the numbing coldness creeping into the carpal bones, and up through the digits of his right hand, until the cold numbness resembled a stiff nagging throb all the way through the hand; exacting a shivered gasp as the sweat caused Chris' grip to slide lower on the joint, tightened with a squeeze and incurred pride to take a backseat. "Stop!" His voice resembled the minor growl it reached whenever someone particularly bothered him, but the surrender in his tone was clear. The fear, was there. Of losing a career no one else could ever have hoped to achieve. And once he broke him, the satisfaction of hearing him gasp as the hold was tightened, brought that tingling sensation down the back of his spine. "Captain, please." Please...; it rolled off Piers' tongue just perfect enough to warrant an extra squeeze; just enough to make the muscles twitch in those pretty calloused finger tips and tremble in his grasp. "Wait!"

"_Wait?_ You..., the great, Never-misses-a-shot Nivans, wants me to... _wait_? What happened to that can do attitude?" Or that brazen confidence which nearly every single person he affiliated with despised? Crumbled beneath the brute force of an incorruptible captain with an intolerance for bullshit. Turning his hips, he bucked like a bronco and tossed the smaller figure off to the side. That iron-clad grip upon the torqued arm released during the throw, he sat forward while his shoulders hulked out, each muscular contour flexing while his forearms sat upon his knees. Arching a prominent brow, he turned his head to acknowledge his defeated partner. "You're not the only sniper I've gone rounds with, powderpuff." Good ol' Forest. Designated the marksman of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team, the man always wore an oily smirk while flicking back long, reddish hair. Chris and Forest Speyer were pals, yet they also formed a competition over who was the better shot, which Chris narrowly came out ahead. "If the time comes, I'll pull the trigger, and y'know what I'll feel?" Lifting his scruffy chin, his eyes looked down his nose as he stared forward. "Angry." A small, rueful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he hoisted himself up to a crouched position, standing upright while brushing himself off, sauntering towards the smaller figure. "You've got a mouth on you, Nivans. I like it better when It's begging." That defeated, venomous look was all he got in response. A soldier hugging his injury to him, like a beaten toddler. But no one could have mustered the fire in those hazel eyes, the flecks of gold and the way they sparkled with resentment, still kneeling upon one knee, and gripping his wound. Like a lion who would have gladly torn his throat out and became the new alpha. A single hand was present, in truce and an offering to aid the sniper off the ground, which on any other given day, may have been proudly received. However, when a man's ego takes a jab that hard, it becomes deflated, and for someone as young and passionate as his partner, it wasn't a surprise to watch him gather up his muster and rise on his own. The disregarded mitt dropped back to Chris' side, watching as the brunette took up the carelessly throttled weapon, dusting long fingers over its structure. "Ice, then heat, you'll be fine by morning." Turning to walk away, one boot heel after the other, Chris' decision to take his leave was met with a startlingly sharp voice.

"Hey!" Turning on a heel the captain smirked, watching as that favored arm extended, tossing the rifle which he deftly captured without falt, never turning eyes from those that held absolute undeniable conviction. "We aren't done."

* * *

**One-shot complete! Hope you guys enjoyed! Let me know, I have a couple of these laying around and if people are interested in weird oneshotty things such as this! I will gladly share. Thanks for your attention! BYE!**


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